Celeste Barclay's The Clan Sinclair

His Highland Prize
I just need to make it to the light. Heavenly Father, please let there be a light over this hill. I canna go much farther. I must go farther. Will there never be a village or a keep nearby? I dinna think I will last much longer. Please, in the name of the Father and all the heavenly saints, just let me find someone who can help me.

Brighde Kerr pushed her sopping wet hair from her eyes as she stumbled onward. She’d lost her shoes days ago, after they fell apart while on the run from her pursuers. Her kirtle, which had once been a daffodil yellow, was now a murky shade of beige with a ripped sleeve, frayed hem, and at least two holes she’d noticed in the skirts.

Brighde ached all over. Her feet were raw from walking and running for nearly two weeks. Her legs protested taking even one more step, and her chest burned from trying to breathe through her efforts and the torrential downpour in which she once again found herself.

Light!
I’m sure of it. I can finally see it coming from a keep. Dear God above, please allow me in. I just need—

Brighde slipped as she crested the last hill that kept her from reaching Castle Dunbeath and the Sinclairs. She landed heavily on her knees and rolled a couple of feet before she could right herself. She tripped over the torn hem of her gown and almost went head over heels again. The night was so dark that she couldn’t even see the hand she raised in front of her. Only the brief flashes of lightning told her she still headed in the right direction. The sound of thunder had long since drowned out the crash of the waves she’d used to guide her along the coast. The light she saw was merely a faint haze, but it was enough to drive her onward.

Stumbling and weaving like someone who’d been at a barrel of whisky for too long, she made her way forward. As the keep came into focus more clearly, she could just make out the faintest of movements on the wall walk. She tried to call out, but her voice was hoarse from lack of use and lack of water.

“Who goes?” called the guardsman from above. Brighde opened her mouth again and could only mouth the word help. No sound came from her. She took two more faltering steps
before falling to her knees.

“Alexander! There’s a woman at the gate! She looks to be in a right state. Do we let her in?”

Alexander Sinclair, the second son of Laird Liam Sinclair, moved to the front of the battlements closest to the gate. He leaned far over the wall to see but could only—barely—make out what looked like a rock that he knew had never been there before. And now the rock shifted. As a crack of lightning illuminated the shifting mass, Alex caught sight of hair so fair it was almost white. It glowed around the woman like a halo.

Alex couldn’t help but shake his head and rub his eyes. The huddled woman leaned back and looked up at the wall. Another flash of lightning made it possible for him to see part of her face and that her mouth moved. He couldn’t see all her face, nor could he make out what she was saying, but she clearly needed help. Highland hospitality required that they let her in, but more than that, something about her called to Alex.